Unforgettable

by Rosanne Bittner

  Ethan set down his coffee cup and took a cheroot from his pocket. He had not missed her direct hint that he had better have no romantic interest in her, but he had a feeling she wasn’t at all sure that was what she really wanted. “It was an innocent question.” He lit the cheroot and puffed on it a moment. “My wife died four years ago. She was Cheyenne…died of pneumonia when she was only about six months along with child. She was about your age.”

  Allyson felt a surprising rush of jealousy at the thought of him lying with a woman. He had made another woman pregnant. Why in the world did that suddenly bother her? And if that woman was her own age, then he must look at her as a woman, too. She seldom thought of herself that way, but Ethan Temple had awakened that part of her. She wished he had let it lie. Immediately the memory of that long, intimate kiss the night before the land rush came vividly to mind, and again her curiosity was aroused. “I’m sorry.”

  Ethan picked up his coffee cup again, holding it in his hands and staring at it. “Her name was Violet. There hasn’t been anybody else since. I’ve just kept myself busy doing whatever the army sends me to do.”

  “You must have family. I heard that Indian man the other day mention your cousin. What about your mother and father? Which one was white?”

  Ethan met her blue eyes. “Which do you think?”

  Allyson shrugged. “Probably your father.”

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “Well, you almost never hear of an Indian man marrying a—” Allyson felt heat coming to her face. She could tell by his eyes that she had inadvertently insulted him, and she wanted to kick herself. “I mean…I’ve always heard stories about white trappers and men such as that going west and marrying Indian women. I’ve even read about them.”

  Ethan decided to ignore her insinuation that white women never married Indian men, at least not willingly. He figured it was an innocent remark, not aimed at him directly. He finished his coffee. “Well, you’re right. My pa was a white trader, my mother Cheyenne. Pa is still alive, with white relatives in Illinois. My mother was killed back in ’64. You ever hear of Sand Creek?”

  Allyson shook her head. He wondered why he had even asked. Sand Creek had happened before she was even born. “A bunch of soldiers, Colorado volunteers, attacked a peaceful Cheyenne village in southeast Colorado, raped and mutilated women, murdered children…it was a massacre, and with no cause. I was there.”

  Allyson envisioned soldiers and Indians going at each other with knives and tomahawks. “Did you fight?”

  Ethan smiled sadly. “I was only three years old, but I remember quite a bit. Some people can’t remember that far back, but when you’re ripped from your mother’s arms and then you stand and watch her being…” He saw her reddening again, and he decided not to go into all the gory details. “Suffice it to say, when they were through with her she was lying in pieces on the ground. I remember standing over her and crying, begging her to get up and put her arms around me. Some other Indian woman grabbed me then and that was the last I ever saw of my mother.”

  True sorrow came into her eyes. “Oh, Ethan, how awful. Where was your father when it happened?”

  Ethan fingered the cheroot. “He was at a fort buying more supplies. He figured we were safe.” He sighed. “After that my pa was never the same. He left me with Cheyenne relatives up in the Dakotas for a while, went back to Illinois, where he came from. He didn’t take me because he knew his white relatives there wouldn’t show me the love my Cheyenne relatives did. I was ten when he came back. He worked as an Indian agent here on the Cheyenne reservation, made sure I got some decent schooling through some missionaries. That was when the Cheyenne had more land than they do now…” He waved his arm to indicate the new surge of whites in Guthrie. “Thanks to land deals like this.”

  He smoked quietly again, and Allyson waited. This was the most Ethan had talked about himself. Since he was normally a man of few words, she did not want to spoil the moment.

  “Pa lost that job because the government said he was too prejudiced on the side of the Cheyenne to effectively carry out government mandates,” he finally continued. “They were probably right, but it caused Pa to turn to drink. When I took a wife I let him live with us, but not long after Violet died, Pa was caught smuggling whiskey into the reservation. He had Indian friends who liked it, and he was drinking heavily himself then. He was ordered to stay out of Indian Territory completely. I had gotten myself involved by then in scouting for the army…needed to stay busy to keep from thinking about Violet, a lot like you’re doing right now to keep from thinking about Toby.”

  Allyson glanced at her lap. “How else do you get through something like that?”

  “I don’t know.” Ethan rose and stretched, watching the crowd near the train. “At any rate, I couldn’t leave. Pa went north to see if he could do anything for my Cheyenne relatives up in the Dakotas. My cousin Red Hawk lives on the Cheyenne reservation here. He’s the son of my mother’s sister, who died a few years ago. My mother’s brother, Big Hands, lives up on the Standing Rock reservation in North Dakota with a Sioux wife. My maternal grandmother also lives up there. Her name is Sky Dancing. My Sioux grandfather is dead, but she chose to continue living on the Sioux reservation rather than come down here. The Sioux and Cheyenne used to run together. There was a lot of inter-marrying. Fact is, there were just about as many Cheyenne at the Little Big Horn as there were Sioux.”

  “Really? Were you there?”

  “I was only fifteen then. My pa had come back and I lived with him down here on the Cheyenne reservation. Those were really restless times, though. Indians everywhere were afraid of some kind of government retaliation. Things are still real tense and unsettled up in Sioux country.”

  Allyson studied his magnificent physique when he turned away. Why did it pleasure her so to look at him? She felt so torn. He was indeed a brave, handsome man, but he was an Indian. She shouldn’t have these feelings. Besides, whenever she thought of what being involved with a man led to, the sick feeling always returned to her stomach. No. She could never let a man touch her that way. She had not minded Ethan Temple’s kiss, but when his hand touched her breast…

  She looked back down at the pan of bacon, embarrassed she had even thought again about that. How often did Ethan think of it? Had he really just been trying to scare her, or would he have done much more if she would have let him? They had not talked about it since, and she preferred to leave it that way. They were just good friends.

  “Back to my father,” Ethan was saying. “I didn’t see him again until about a year ago, when he came back here to tell me he was returning to Illinois. I guess whiskey had gotten him in trouble up at the Standing Rock reservation, too. He just figured if he couldn’t live near his wife’s people, he’d go back to his own. I got a letter from him not long ago, and I have a feeling he’s not well. I’ve got to go and see him as soon as I can.”

  “Yes, you should. And be glad you had a father who loved you, as well as your Indian family.” Allyson picked up another piece of bacon. “What about your scouting duties? I’ll bet you’ve had some close calls, been shot at, maybe wounded.”

  Ethan sat back down on a log across the fire from her. “Oh, I’ve had my run-ins, with whites and Indians both. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

  Allyson smiled, enjoying the way he looked when he was smiling. “It must be hard being part of both races. Don’t you kind of wonder sometimes where you really belong, with Indians or with whites?”

  His eyes moved over her strangely then, and Allyson felt a shiver. Had she insulted him again? Or was he wanting something he couldn’t have?

  “All the time,” he answered. “I’ve always lived like a white man, but my looks, and in here—” He put a fist to his heart. “I’m more Indian. The reality is, no matter how Indian I am, I can’t live that way. Even Indians can’t live like Indians any more, thanks to the government. It’s all different now. Things like Sand Creek put an end to
the old ways. Right now I’m kind of living in both worlds, I guess. Maybe that’s how it will always have to be.” Ethan noticed the lines at the supply train were thinning a little. “I’d better go check on your stove. Give me that list of yours and I’ll see what else I can find.”

  Allyson rose, picking up a small towel to wipe bacon grease from her fingers. “You’ve done too much already. I can go myself.”

  Ethan stomped on the cheroot. “All right. How about if you go get in line, and I’ll find someone to haul the stove. We’ll need three or four extra men. Those cast iron stoves are damn heavy.”

  She smiled. “Good. I can’t wait to get started. I’ll bet I won’t be able to bake bread fast enough for all my customers.” Again she felt a shiver at the way his eyes raked her body.

  “I’ll agree with that. You just remember you’re going to have a lot of men for customers, and they won’t always be coming here because they want bread. They think you’re a lonely widow now. That could be dangerous.”

  “I have my six-gun.”

  Her hair was drying to a beautiful red luster, and he wanted to grab her and beg her to give this up, marry him, and let him take care of her. How could he know so soon he felt this strongly about this daring little thief from New York City? He hadn’t wanted a woman so badly since his wedding night with Violet, and part of him couldn’t help wondering if that was desire he sometimes saw in those blue eyes that were so innocent of the woman in her. If he could stir that woman, as he was sure he had done that night he kissed her…

  He turned away. What was the use? “Whatever you say,” he answered. “I’ll go round up some help.”

  Allyson watched him mount his horse and ride off, thinking how very different he was from anyone she had ever known. She told herself to be glad he would be leaving soon. She could sort out her feelings then, get her feet on the ground, learn to understand these strange new emotions. She was sure she didn’t know her own mind right now. If she did, she wouldn’t feel desire for an Indian man—for any man, for that matter.

  She turned away and went into her tent, tying on a bonnet and picking up her handbag. After today most of her money would be gone, but she would at least have what she needed to get started at her business. She forced aside all thoughts of Ethan Temple and marched toward the train. She had more important things to think about now, like finding a sign painter. There was every other sort of tradesman in the new settlement—she could surely find someone to make her a sign to post. Ally’s Place. She had already been thinking of what to name her establishment. That sounded as good as any. It was simple and to the point.

  She reached the train, and on a flatbed car she saw a new, black, cast iron stove that had just had a canvas cover removed from it. Her heart raced with joy and anticipation. There it was! That stove was going to help her become one of the richest women in Guthrie, in spite of Nolan Ives, and without Ethan’s help. This was something she had to do on her own, and personal grief, personal fear, or personal emotions over some forbidden man were not going to stop her. For the next few months that big, black cookstove would be her friend, her most prized possession. It didn’t do a person any good to depend on other people. Somehow those people either failed them or hurt them, or died on them. The only thing to depend on was one’s self…tools of their trade…and money. She was on her way to being one of the richest ladies of Guthrie, and she would do it all by herself.

  She waited patiently, her eye on the stove the whole time. She was almost to the supplier’s table when she saw men begin unloading the stove from the flatcar to put it on a cart with huge wooden wheels, a contraption apparently designed for hauling a lot of weight. She supposed that it was the men Ethan had hired who were taking the stove from the car, but then she saw a fat, well-suited man giving the men directions. It was Nolan Ives!

  She pushed her way past several people to reach the supplier. “That’s my stove!” she declared. “You’re letting those men take my stove!”

  “What?”

  Allyson pointed frantically to the cookstove being loaded onto the cart. “That’s the stove I ordered! You said it would be in today. Don’t you remember? I ordered it just four days ago, the day before the land rush.”

  The man searched through a pile of papers lying in front of him on a makeshift table of wood and barrels. “What’s the name, ma’am?”

  “Allyson! Allyson Mills!” Allyson’s heart beat so hard that her chest hurt. It was bad enough to see someone hauling away the stove she so sorely needed, but to have it be Nolan Ives made it all the worse.

  “Sorry, ma’am, I don’t have any record of your order.”

  “But you have to! You’re lying, aren’t you? How much did Nolan Ives pay you to let him take the stove?”

  The man glared at her, his face dark red with anger. “I’m no liar, girl! Now, if you want to reorder, I’ll place the request right away. You’ll have your stove within a week.”

  “A week! I need it right now!” Allyson fought to keep from crying.

  “That’s the only one that came in, ma’am, and it’s first come, first served. I do have an order for a Jane and Robert Harrington, but they never came to claim it. Mr. Ives was here asking for a stove, so I let him have it, since the Harringtons hadn’t paid in advance.”

  Allyson’s heart fell. She realized she had ordered the stove under her fake name. To admit it now could cost her her lots, claimed under her real name. She realized she was actually lucky the supplier didn’t remember her well enough to connect her to the fake name. He’d seen so many thousands of faces over the last few days, it was probably impossible for him to remember them all. “Please! Whatever that man paid for the stove, I’ll pay you more!”

  “Sorry, ma’am, the transaction has already been made.”

  Allyson just stared at him a moment, until someone behind her asked her to please move out of the way so he could get his supplies. She struggled to keep from breaking down completely, then turned and stormed toward Nolan Ives. “Get that stove off that cart! It’s mine!” she shouted, ignoring the stares of the others.

  One of Ives’s men walked over and put an arm out to stop her. “Go order yourself another one, lady,” he exclaimed. “This one’s bought and paid for. Mr. Ives has come here to build a house for his wife, and he needs the stove.”

  Allyson backed away as though touched by something horrible. The man who had pushed at her was the very man who had shot Toby. She looked from him to Nolan Ives. “How much did you bribe the supplier to let you have my stove!”

  Ives grinned. “Whoever ordered this stove, they never came for it.”

  “Look at the line! A lot of people haven’t been able to get their supplies yet! The only reason you got that stove was because you probably paid twice what it’s worth!”

  “Give it up, little girl. Sell out to me now, and you won’t lose much. You’re a woman alone and barely a woman at that. You don’t belong in a place like this.” Ives turned away and left, walking alongside the others who led the oxen pulling the cart.

  Allyson glanced up at the brute of a man who had stopped her. “You’re a coward and a bully! Lower than an earthworm!” She turned away quickly so he would not see her tears, knowing he would only enjoy the sight and also knowing she was not going to get her stove from Nolan Ives. She trooped back to the supplier, shoving her way past others while she pulled money from her handbag. When she reached his table, she plunked down a wad of bills. “You get me another stove, and quick, or I swear I’ll get my pistol and use it on you!”

  Others grumbled about the way she had pushed her way to the front of the line, and the disgruntled supplier scowled at her. “Look, lady, if you want to order a stove, I’ll place the order and put a rush on it. But I can’t guarantee anything before five or six days.”

  “I can’t wait that long! I need it now!”

  “That’s the best I can do! Take it or leave it!”

  Allyson looked over at the cart in the distance, watc
hing her precious stove roll toward the northern end of the tent city. Nolan Ives was riding on it, his big belly bouncing every time the cart hit a bump. He was still watching her, and she felt almost as though she had been physically attacked. She turned her attention back to the supplier. “Do you have any Dutch ovens?”

  “Yes. I can sell you one.”

  “How kind of you,” Allyson sneered. “I’ll take three! And please fill the rest of this list the best you can.” She handed him a piece of paper listing the items she needed. “Someone will be here shortly with a wagon to carry everything. And go ahead and order another stove! I’ll pay you for the other things now and give you a down payment on the stove, and I want something in writing from you promising that I get the very first stove that comes through!”

  The man’s eyes glowered with rage. “Whatever you want, Missy.” He began writing. “Why isn’t your husband here to do this for you?”

  “I don’t have a husband! He was killed the first day of the land rush.” Her voice broke on the words, and she said nothing more while the man continued writing.

  He handed her the paper. “I’ll need five dollars down on the stove. I’ll figure up the other items once your list is filled.”

  Allyson rummaged through her handbag, handing the man the money. “Fine. I’ll be back shortly.” She picked up the order he had written out for her and turned away, hurrying back to her campfire, fighting tears all the way. She told herself she must not let this latest setback get her down. She would have to make do with the Dutch ovens. She had used them before, when she helped in the kitchen at the orphanage. Over an open campfire, she could still bake bread, as long as she could keep the fire going. If Nolan Ives thought taking her stove away was going to stop her, he had another thing coming!

  7

  Inside the tent, Allyson wept into her bedroll with such intensity that her head and stomach ached. Thunder rolled in the distance and the rain came down harder, every drop that beat on the tent reminding her that she might not be able to realize her dream after all. Things could not have gone worse. Outside the heavens had opened up in a torrential rain that made it impossible to build a fire. Bread dough sat rising in her Dutch ovens, but there was no way to bake it. She had kneaded it twice already, separated it as it continued to rise, enough for several loaves. It would not be much longer before the air in the dough would be lost and everything would go to waste. At the moment she did not even have a way to chill it.